


Tick Tock (Clock of My Heart)

by irisbleufic



Category: Back to the Future (Movies), Back to the Future: The Game, Black Mirror
Genre: 1930s, 1950s, 1980s, 1990s, 2020s, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Far Future, M/M, Multi, Nostalgia, San Junipero, Technobabble, Technology, Time Travel, Virtual Reality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-05 05:24:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10298540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: You are what memories you make—past, present,andfuture.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this concept in mind almost from the moment I finished watching  _Black Mirror_ 's “San Junipero” episode. It took me a long while (several months) to decide which of the  _BTTF_ protagonists would take which role, so to speak, but I ultimately settled on an arrangement that is, I hope, both unexpected and appropriate. The title of this story is the title of  **[one of the original-score tracks from “San Junipero”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7IRVCbHbkpQ)** ; clocks and time pervade the episode as fully as they pervade  _BTTF_ canon, so the chance to tie these universes together through music, too, is pleasing. I should note that I've written this so that you don't actually have to have watched “San Junipero” to understand this story, although I  _more than strongly_ suggest that you do. It might be the single most extraordinary self-contained hour of television I've ever seen, and that's saying a lot.  It’s available on Netflix!

**San Junipero, 1985**

Marty wandered the main drag, wondering if he ought to have taken the map he'd been offered.

Then again, his dusk-dimmed surroundings were fairly self-explanatory. This town reminded him a lot of home. Slowing his pace on the crowded sidewalk, Marty passed a 1950s-themed nostalgia diner, stepping aside as a clean-cut young man, who'd just been released from a blue convertible otherwise filled with chattering young women, waved and dashed inside to meet someone.

He recognized the song blaring on the girls' radio as they drove off in a chorus of delighted hoots and hollers. He'd know Lindsey Buckingham's _Time Bomb Town_ anywhere.

Next, he passed a place called Featherstone that appeared to be selling antiques. He paused to study the vintage tables and chairs arranged artfully in the window display. He could've sworn his dad's parents had a couple of those exact pieces situated in their living room.

The next display was full of television screens. They flickered and hummed in concert, alive with a single garish image. The close-up of Max Headroom hissed something unintelligible, something Marty knew he should recognize, something that seemed off. _Am I dreaming?_

Just as he spotted the place he'd been told to look for—Tucker's, the most popular hang-out around—an argument in the middle of the street stopped him in his tracks. He almost tripped off the curb.

“Would you please _stop_ it?” snapped a red-haired young man about Marty's age, rounding furiously on the woman who followed doggedly at his heels. “I'm just here to unwind, all right?”

The woman was pretty, Marty supposed, if you liked them dark-haired and severe with a pearl in each earlobe. “Emmett, be reasonable!” she said, catching the young man's elbow. “ _Emmett_ —”

“I'm still walking, Edna,” replied Emmett, shaking her off. They paused in front of the entrance to Tucker's. “And I didn't exactly invite you to accompany me tonight, so there's also that.”

“Need I remind you that we only have a couple of hours left?” Edna said coyly, gracefully kicking aside the hem of her calf-length skirt as she stepped right in front of Emmett. “I thought we might...use it,” she continued, words laden with some hidden meaning that made Emmett cringe.

There was something about her dress-sense that seemed old-fashioned above and beyond the pearls; maybe it was the neckline of her blouse. Marty couldn't place it any more than he could place why Emmett looked like he'd raided a vintage shop with even less success. He saw people dressed like that every now and again, but these two were literally wearing throwbacks to his grandparents' era.

“Oh, I _am_ using it,” Emmett retorted. “Chiefly in the endeavor of losing track of you.”

Marty stood watching for a few more seconds, hesitant to venture into Tucker's right on the heel of a lovers' spat on which he'd had no business eavesdropping. He counted to twenty before crossing the street and entering, hoping he'd given them enough chance to get lost in the crowd.

Tucker's wasn't just popular; it was _booming_. Marty had to fight his way past the lower-level crowd with his elbows, grateful of the fact he was still wearing his aviator sunglasses. He felt like everyone attempted to make eye contact as he passed, distracted momentarily from whatever interaction his passing happened to disrupt. He swallowed, fixing his eyes on the neon-lit double palm logo on the back wall. Just past the jukeboxes, there was an arcade section. Thank _God_.

Marty made a bee-line for the _Wild Gunman_ console as soon as he spotted it, silently calling dibs. He fumbled a quarter into the slot, taking the gun-controller in hand. He didn't have to think when he was shooting like this, each blip on the screen a distraction, a flash of validation—

“Hey, you're good at this,” said an awkward young man in glasses, sipping a pale yellow drink garnished with a twist of lemon. “I can't aim worth shit. I haven't seen anyone draw so fast since—”

“Uh-huh,” said Marty, glancing back at the screen, continuing to shoot. _Damn_. He'd missed.

“I'd suggest we face off, but I don't see how they could possibly work in a two-player feature—”

" _Dammit_ ," Marty hissed, missing another shot, ending the game. He fished another quarter from his pocket, loathing the way the tipsy young man was edging ever closer into his space.

“Do you wanna, uh, maybe take turns playing _F-1_?” suggested the guy, by now unmistakably flirtatious, tilting his head back over his shoulder at the drag-racing game. “With me?”

Marty watched a pixelated car on _F-1_ 's screen skid along the simulated racetrack before flipping over. He flinched, stepping backward, trapped against the _Wild Gunman_ console.

“Ah, no thanks,” he said, glaring at the guy through his sunglasses. “I just wanna get my bearings.”

“Okay,” said the guy, finally backing off, mildly dejected. “See you around?” he asked hopefully.

“Mmhmm,” Marty agreed noncommittally, heading for the bar as fast as he could manage to move.

If drinking made you as dopey here as it made you anywhere else, he wasn't sure that was a thing he wanted to do. The bleach-blond bartender said they didn't have Pepsi Free, so he ordered a glass-bottled Coke instead. He reminded himself that giving a shit about sugar intake was pointless.

There weren't many places to sit that weren't already claimed by people out on the dance floor, so Marty sat down at a booth littered with bottles and glasses that looked mostly empty, praying that he wouldn't be evicted soon. He just wanted to people-watch, to get a feel for the place.

That was exactly the moment in which the redhead from out in the street rushed frantically up to Marty's table, sliding in next to him on the bench. He put a tentative hand on Marty's shoulder, leaning in close, his lively brown eyes radiating intense distress.

“Go along with whatever I say,” Emmett said, or at least Marty _thought_ that was what the woman with pearls had called him. Her name had started with an _E_ , too, hadn't it?

“Sorry?” Marty blurted, his hand scrabbling instinctively at Emmett's sleeve. “I don't under—”

“Whatever I say, go along with it,” said Emmett, through his teeth, as the woman strode up. “All right, Edna,” he said loudly. “You're being ridiculous. Do I have to red-light you?”

Marty made eye contact with Edna, doing his best to look coolly insulted that she'd interrupted them.

"We're at two hours, thirty-five,” Edna told Emmett, checking her watch. “There's not much time left.”

Emmett heaved a sigh, scooting closer to Marty, their thighs almost touching. “ _Edna_ —”

Edna clenched and unclenched her fists. “Look, last week, we had the most _engaging_ —”

“Last week was last week. I need to talk with my friend here, if you don't mind?” Emmett said, sliding his arm companionably around Marty. “I haven't seen him in a while,” he said, leaning forward as if to impart a secret. “Edna, he's sick. Six-months-to- _live_ sick.”

“Five, actually,” Marty cut in, emboldened, and Emmett turned to regard him in grateful disbelief.

“I need to catch up with him,” Emmett insisted, turning quickly back to Edna. “ _Private_ time.”

“As you wish,” said Edna, sourly, fixing her eyes on Marty with genuine pity. “My condolences.”

“Ah, that's okay,” said Marty, awkwardly. “Thanks. I, uh—that is, Emmett and I—we appreciate it.”

“Then I'll see you around?” Edna asked Emmett, not backing away quickly enough for Marty's liking.

“Sure,” said Emmett, with a strained smile, turning to Marty as she stalked off. “ _Whew_. Close one!”

They sagged against each other in astonished laughter. Marty took a swig of his Coke, almost choking.

“Sorry for killing you,” Emmett said. “For the whole six-months-to-live thing, I mean. Or—what was it, five? That was a nice touch. I'm Emmett,” he said, offering his hand. “Doctor Emmett Brown.”

“Doctor, huh?” Marty echoed, still grinning in spite of himself. “You look awfully young to be a doc, Doc. I'm Marty,” he said, shaking Emmett's hand, uncertain of whether he ought to give his full name.

“As we all know, looks around here can be deceiving,” said Emmett, absently, his eyes trailing after Edna. “She's not a terrible person, really. I feel bad. We go...quite a ways back, she and I, and I ran into her last week _entirely_ without meaning to at the Quagmire—”

“What's the Quagmire?” Marty asked, perplexed. Goddamn it, he _hated_ being such a newbie.

“If you don't already know what the Quagmire is, you probably don't want to know,” said Emmett, darkly. “As it stands, I was only there to follow up on a lead relating to some engaging conversation on quantum physics with one of the regulars. I might have endured the gentleman's other, er, proclivities, that is if I hadn't been side-tracked by Edna and her non-stop nostalgic _babble_...” He trailed off, refocusing on Marty, gesturing at Marty's drink. “Do you want another one?”

“Ah, no,” said Marty, hastily, sucking down the dregs through his straw. “Really, that's not—”

“Of course you do,” Emmett replied affably, grabbing Marty's hand, starting for the bar. “Come on!” He waved to the bartender, tugging them up to a pair of empty stools. “Jack and Coke, times two.”

“Really, it's okay,” Marty insisted, grinning as he hopped up onto his stool. “Mine was just a Coke.”

“Jack and Coke, times two,” Emmett repeated to the bartender, “unless you've got anything resembling a traditional Kentucky red-eye, in which case _that_ would be—”

“Slow down, old man,” said the blond bartender, smirking knowingly at Emmett. “Night's still young.”

While the bartender prepared their drinks, Emmett studied Marty so intently that Marty could've sworn he was about to pull out a pencil and start sketching him on the nearest napkin. It was then that he realized he was still wearing his aviators, and Emmett couldn't get a very good look at Marty's eyes.

“What are you, ah, doing?” Marty asked, starting to blush, even though he had a pretty good inkling.

“I'm...regarding you,” said Emmett, awkwardly, eyes narrowing as he relaxed back into a smile. Inexplicably, the faint freckles and fly-away, fiery auburn hair only added to his charm.

“I feel like I'm being analyzed here, Doc,” Marty admitted, feeling abruptly overheated in his layers.

“Why the glasses?” Emmett finally asked, touching the nosepiece. “Surely you can't see a thing.”

Marty swallowed hard, taking hold of Emmett's wrist, frozen on the spot. “Uh, _well_ —”

“I like them,” Emmett said. “They definitely suit you, but do you _need_ them in here?”

“Nah,” Marty confessed, taking them off, tucking them inside one of his vest pockets. “I used to wear them back when I was in school. For the hell of it, mostly. Now, they're just a comfort thing.”

“I figured they were more of a fashion statement. The rest of your outfit, on the other hand...” Emmett trailed off, frowning in mock-disapproval, picking at Marty's vest. “Is that a _life preserver_?”

Marty straightened both his jean jacket and his rigorously-in-question orange outer layer. “Haven't you been camping?” he asked incredulously. “Down vests come in handy. Anyway, it's chilly tonight.”

“Don't get me wrong, it's refreshing,” Emmett continued, turning to survey the dance floor as if it were alien territory. “People try so hard to look how they _think_ they should look. Looks they probably saw in some movie.” He leaned forward, removing Marty's aviators from his pocket, placing them back on the bridge of Marty's nose—but not pushing them up quite far enough to hide Marty's eyes. “No, I _like_ these. They're...authentically you,” he added, finally blushing himself.

Before Marty could respond, the bartender arrived with their drinks. Marty made a face, not expecting the intensity of the whisky's burn; meanwhile, Doc made a face to mirror Marty's, as if he, too, wasn't used to the consumption of alcohol. That seemed incongruous for a guy who'd requested something called red-eye, but Marty wasn't going to question this kind, attractive stranger's sense of humor.

“Do you live here?” asked Emmett, conversationally, changing the subject. “Haven't seen you around.”

“No,” Marty confessed, still hesitant to disclose too many personal details on his first visit. “I, ah—”

“Then you're a tourist?” Emmett supplied helpfully, already finished with about a third of his drink.

Marty didn't quite know how to answer that. He settled for half nodding, half shaking his head.

“For the sake of my hypothesis, we'll go with tourist,” Emmett said decisively. “So you're new here?”

Marty nodded, giddy with relief at Emmett's easy acceptance. “It's my first night here,” he admitted.

“Many happy returns,” said Emmett, wryly. “As fate would have it, I know this place better than most.”

Their heads both turned sharply as the recognizable opening strains of _The Power of Love_ came over the speakers. Emmett swiveled back to Marty, looking both excited and apologetic.

“Not that I've done that much to particularly keep up with Huey Lewis,” he said, pushing his unfinished drink aside, sliding off his stool as he offered Marty his hand, “but I've _always_ liked this song.”

“I think you're gonna regret this,” Marty sighed, reluctantly taking Emmett's hand. “I haven't danced in a while, and it's not worth mentioning how, uh...uncoordinated I am, I guess you could say.”

“I've never been the best dancer, either, at least not according to current standards,” said Emmett, grinning as tugged Marty along with both hands now. “But then, I figured—what the hell!”

Watching Emmett dance in front of him was every bit as comical as Emmett's tilted grin had promised—that and _more_. Marty shoved his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose and tried to forget how self-conscious he felt, tried to move just as gleefully to the beat as Emmett, but it was no use. He found himself stock-still and _staring_ as Emmett fell more and more naturally into his steps.

 _Jesus, he's sweet,_ Marty thought, backing away before he quite realized what he was doing. _But otherwise, this town is full of people like Edna, and it eats people like me for breakfast._

Marty made sure Emmett was preoccupied with dancing next to another stranger in the crowd before he peeled away and fled the dance floor. He made his way to the exit with less care than he'd made his entrance, scarcely daring to breathe until he found himself outside in the alley. It was pouring rain.

Marty checked his calculator watch and hunched back up against the brick wall, taking a seat on what appeared to be a low wooden trash-storage bin. There were still well over two hours left. _Shit_.

Someone dashed outside, splashed through puddles, and didn't stop until they were in front of Marty.

“My dancing wasn't _that_ appalling, was it?” Emmett asked contritely. “I tend to forget—”

“Nah. You're fine,” Marty insisted, not even lying about the fact that he'd enjoyed himself. “You did great. Sorry, it's just that I'm...not the dancer I used to be. It's a sore spot, Doc.”

“No shit,” said Emmett, good-naturedly. “You were like a frightened horse on a frozen lake back there.” He grimaced at his failed joke-attempt. “I'm kidding. Half kidding, anyway. Sorry I pushed—er, _pulled_ you into it. Saturday nights, once a week. It's like no time at all. I get impatient.”

“Trust me, it's not that,” Marty sighed, struggling for articulacy. “It's just...everyone was looking.”

Emmett frowned at him, running one hand through his unruly hair as he sat down. “Looking?”

“Yeah. You know, _ah_ ,” Marty faltered, gesturing somewhat uselessly. “Two guys dancing.”

“First of all, folks are far less uptight than they used to be,” Emmett said reassuringly. “Second of all, in case you hadn't noticed, this is what they call a party town. No one's judging.” He elbowed Marty in the side, winking. “If they _were_ staring, it was no doubt thanks to my outdated attire.”

Just like that, they were leaning into each other, laughing again—so hard this time that Marty shook.

“Know what, Doc?” he asked, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. “You're ridiculous, and it's amazing.”

“Thank you,” said Emmett, with curiously restrained pride. “At least by now, I hope that I own it.”

Awkward silence fell between them. It was all Marty could do not to press his thigh against Emmett's.

“I haven't been on a dance floor in a long time, is all,” he said. “I've never danced with another guy.”

“Never?” Emmett asked, although he looked sympathetic. “The-whole-time-you've-been-alive never?"

Marty nodded, trying not to dwell on the fact that Emmett's thigh was warm against his own. “Never.”

“That's one sheltered existence you've got there, Marty. And I thought that _mine_ was bad.”

“Yeah, well,” said Marty, swallowing bile, “as far as my family's concerned, I can't do anything.”

“Well, nobody knows about even _half_ of what I get up to, and most of them would find it boring as hell,” Emmett said. “With your folks, though, it's from a place of love, right? They worry.”

“They don't worry,” said Marty, bitterly. “The concept of me enjoying myself would blow their minds.”

“What would you like to do?” Emmett asked. “What would you like to do that you've _never_ done?”

“Oh,” Marty sighed wistfully. “ _Jesus_ , Doc. So many things. I don't know where to start.”

“In a town like this, the world's your oyster,” Emmett said softly. “Midnight is two hours away.”

“That's not very long,” Marty sighed. “Anyway, what's a guy like me gonna do? Watch the rain?”

“Why waste time sitting here?” asked Emmett, sounding breathy and uncertain even though his hand on Marty's knee, sliding over denim to reach Marty's inner thigh, seemed firm and confident.

Marty felt his pulse stutter, letting his eyes slide shut. He forced them open again, glancing sidelong at the motel sign, and thought about taking this invitation for what it was. He pictured Emmett naked, flushed, and panting against shadow-cast sheets, imagined sucking possessive bruises into that pale, freckled neck like he'd never gotten to do with— _with_ —

“I've, _ah_.” Marty stood up abruptly, throwing off Emmett's hand, shaking his head “Listen—”

“It's okay,” Emmett sighed, doubled over, rubbing his temples. “I'm sorry, I never should have—”

“No, it's that I'm, _uh_ —I'm engaged,” Marty admitted. “I have a fiancée. Her name's Jennifer.”

Emmett gave him a wistful, yet somehow earnestly teasing look. “Is Jennifer _here_?”

Marty shook his head, startled, finding the concept jarring and preposterous. “No, she's—”

“Elsewhere?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh,” Emmett sighed, crestfallen, but just as suddenly appeared to gather his nerve again. “Forgive me for being so forward, Marty, but do you...want to go to bed with me?”

Marty's heart stopped. The sheets, the shadows, the kiss. _God, yes_.

Emmett babbled on, not meeting Marty's eyes. “We could be back at mine in—”

"I never did anything like that," Marty murmured. “Ever. I never even got—”

“All the more reason?” Emmett asked, glancing up with a soft, hopeful smile.

“Jeez, you're nice,” Marty sighed wistfully. “But I...look, I just _can't_.”

“I understand,” said Emmett, getting to his feet. He shoved his hands in his pockets.

“I have to go,” Marty said, grimacing at the rain.

“In _this_?” asked Emmett, dubiously.

“Been great meeting you,” Marty said, offering Emmett his hand. “Doc.”

“Likewise,” Emmett said, shaking it. “Is that what you're going to call me?”

Marty grinned apologetically. “Given I'll probably never see you again, yeah.”

Emmett nodded, once again wearing that curious, compelling air of sadness.

“Fair enough,” he replied. “It's a pleasure to have met you, Aviator Boy.”

“Okay,” Marty said, spinning on his heels, starting to walk away. “Okay.”

He paused beneath the awning of Tucker's, hissing under his breath. _Shit_.

By the time he'd spun around again, Emmett— _Doc_ —had already vanished.

 

 

**One Week Later**

Emmett pulled into the side-street, congratulating himself on having found a parking spot. Just as he got out of the truck, he spotted Edna making her way across the street to him.

“What the hell _is_ this, Edna?” he demanded, anxious, lacking anything else useful to say.

Edna coiffed her swept-up hair. “Emmett, I _do_ understand that I must be coming across—”

“You give me very little choice but to red-light you,” said Emmett, tersely. “Stalking is as serious an offense here as it is back at home, maybe even _more_ so. We were incredibly conscious—”

“For God's sake, don't be so dramatic!” Edna interrupted. “You needn't remind me every second—”

“Then stop _following_ me!” Emmett pleaded, starting to push past her toward the entrance.

“Hear me out, Emmett,” Edna begged. “Please. You have no idea what a terrible time I've had.”

“How many eligible bachelors do you think there are in San Junipero? Hundreds? _Thousands_?”

“That's entirely beside the point. I don't _care_. You're the only one I ever notice.”

"What I'm saying is, there are plenty of other guys out there for you to choose from, Edna,” Emmett sighed. “Girls, even, if you decided to give that a try. Heaven knows plenty of them _stare_.”

Edna's expression turned to one of distaste. “The locals? They might as well all be dead people.”

“They seem lively for dead people,” Emmett observed as a small crowd milled past. “At least to me.”

“I don't want some kind of boring, clichéd romance,” Edna insisted, catching Emmett's wrist. “Sedate and dull and _dreadful_ like a kind of...I don't know, put-us-in-a-retirement-home deal!”

“Well, if you're looking for someone to _fuck_ ,” said Emmett, bluntly, under his breath, “there are plenty of options. Spend some more time at the Quagmire. The kink crowd there's raring to go.”

“It's not just sex,” Edna seethed, embarrassed for once, her voice even quieter than Emmett's.

“It _was_ just sex, but it technically wasn't even _that_ ,” Emmett corrected her, exasperated. “We never even got past the necking stage because you insisted on filling me in regarding _everything_ that's happened to you since we last crossed paths back in—”

“We made a connection,” Edna insisted stubbornly. “And you always denied we had the potential—”

“It was fun to catch up,” Emmett sighed, brushing her cheek. “Edna, I'm sorry.” He pressed a chaste, dry kiss against her lips. “Get out there and try to enjoy yourself, for God's sake.”

Edna stalked off, furious, leaving Emmett alone in the middle of the street. He hurriedly made his way inside Tucker's, wending his way to the bar without hesitation. He ordered a Jack and Coke.

“Hey there, cutie,” said a familiar-looking blonde, stepping up next to him. “Ya waitin' on someone?”

“Not really,” Emmett sighed heavily, paying for his drink. “I'm afraid I managed to scare them off.”

“How 'bout I get ya somethin' to drink?” asked the blonde, patting Emmett's shoulder. “Cheer ya up?”

“Sure,” Emmett sighed, deciding her company couldn't hurt. “Wait till I've finished this one, though.”

“Comin' right up, and no worries,” said the blonde. “It's just, _gosh_ , you remind me an awful lot of somebody I knew back in the day. He was a real nice kid. Smartypants, too. Such a gentleman!”

 _I'm anything but_ , Emmett thought morosely, _having blown off Edna the way I did, and having so crudely made a pass at that striking young man—_

Emmett's neck prickled. Oblivious to the cheerful blonde's rambling, he glanced over his shoulder.

Marty stood watching him from across the crowded dance floor, sunglasses tilted down just far enough down the delicate bridge of his nose to expose that unnerving, _unforgettable_ blue stare.

“...anyway, there was nothin' they coulda done about it, and here I am. Such a shame, what I had'ta leave behind. Never got to see Georgie's youngest again, and in such a state, too. What can ya do? Hey, handsome. You look a million miles away. Seen a ghost or somethin'? Wanna dance?”

Marty's expression was unreadable, but Emmett detected a hint of disappointment. It was too much.

“I'd be delighted,” Emmett sighed, giving in to her request. “What did you say your name was again?”

"You're sweet,” said the blonde, tugging Emmett onto the dance floor. “An' I didn't. Call me Sylvia.”

Emmett smiled, finding he had to force the expression, squinting slightly into her unusual grey-green-indigo eyes. “You remind me an awful lot of someone yourself,” Emmett said. “She was a singer.”

Once they'd finished dancing, still laughing at Emmett's relative ineptitude, Emmett planted himself back at the bar with Sylvia for further conversation. All the while, he kept Marty's sulking, bespectacled surveillance in his peripheral vision, wondering why the young man didn't just leave.

“Excuse me,” Emmett said, cutting Sylvia off mid-sentence. “Restroom. I won't be five minutes.”

“Yeah right, kiddo!” Sylvia called after him. “I see that looker in the sunglasses! He's followin' ya!”

Emmett stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror for all of three seconds before Marty burst in.

“Hey,” he faltered as Emmett turned to face him. “I, ah— _look_. I don't know how to do this.”

“How to do what, Aviator Boy?” demanded Emmett, far more stand-offishly than he had intended.

“You _know_ what I'm talking about,” Marty pleaded, pulling off his sunglasses, using them to gesture in frustration. “Just—help me. _Please_ , Doc. Can you just—make this easy for me?”

They'd stepped so close to one another that it was easy, so _remarkably_ easy for Emmett to brush Marty's cheek with the back of his hand. The shiver it sent through Marty was indescribable.

“My truck's out back,” Emmett said, finding his mouth dry. “Do you want to come with me?”

Marty nodded, wordlessly grateful, shakily sticking the ridiculous sunglasses in his vest pocket.

Emmett took Marty's hand, led him out, and wasn't tempted for even a split second to look back.

Once they got on the highway, Marty looked distinctly nervous that Emmett was driving well over eighty in a zone signposted as fifty-five. They had the windows down, letting night wind rush in.

“How long have you been here?” Marty asked, more to break up the tension than anything else.

“Sorry?” Emmett asked, concentrating on slowing the truck's speed a bit in spite of his hurry.

“How long have you been _here_?” Marty asked again, pointing ground-ward for emphasis.

“In San Junipero?”

Marty nodded.

“A couple of months,” Emmett admitted reluctantly. “The plan is to stay just long enough to enjoy myself. I guess I'm something of a tourist. Just like you.”

“Yeah,” agreed Marty, pensively. “That makes sense.”

“Marty, are you all right?”

“Yeah, Doc. I'm fine.”

Upon their arrival at the Estate, Marty got out of the car and studied the structure with undisguised wonder. He followed Emmett up the wooden stairs at the back, seemingly perplexed at why a beach-front house should be this large. He kept blinking at it, as if to clear his vision.

“Wow,” Marty breathed. “It's like someplace I've seen before. Maybe back at home, or in a dream.”

“You like it?” Emmett asked, closing the door behind them, surveying the bizarre, nostalgic mishmash of furniture and gadgets of his own devising. “My parents built it, or... _well_. Something like it.”

“It's so big,” said Marty, absently, picking up the headpiece to a mind-reading device project that Emmett had abandoned _decades_ ago. “And look at all this stuff! Pretty far-out, Doc.”

“I'm an inventor, amongst other things,” Emmett admitted. “It reminds me of where I grew up.”

Marty put down the headpiece, wandering over to the desk, where his eyes fell on a picture frame.

“Brown, did you say your name was?” he asked, picking up the frame. “Your last name, I mean?”

Rather than properly respond, Emmett snatched the frame away from Marty, replacing it on the desk. He hadn't expected that keeping such a token in plain view might cause him grief should a situation like this arise. He hadn't even bothered to _consider_ the implications for himself or—

“Miss your mom?” Marty asked, indicating the frame. “She's beautiful. Looks like she was kind, too.”

 _Please, please forgive me,_ he thought, tugging Marty to him, losing himself as their lips met.

The bedroom wasn't upstairs, so Emmett thanked his lucky stars for _that_. Marty fell back against the mattress without any prompting, sighing when he realized that the window behind them was open, looking out on the short stretch of beach leading down to the sea.

Emmett crawled onto the mattress, positioning himself over Marty. He dipped down for another kiss, ravenous, realizing that Marty's eager, tugging fingers were already at his belt.

“You'll have to show me,” Marty whispered, unfastening Emmett's trousers. His touch was dizzying.

“All right,” Emmett gasped, pushing Marty's denim jacket and down vest off his shoulders, dismayed at the complexity of Marty's clothing. Suspenders, checkered button-down, red t-shirt. “A little help?”

They could laugh through the undressing stage, at least, what with each of them finding the other's ensemble impractical at best and ludicrous at worst. Marty's eyes crinkled endearingly in the low light, as if to apologize for what met Emmett's eyes once he'd peeled away Marty's last layer.

Emmett kissed whatever apology Marty had been about to give back into that beautiful mouth.

They coupled fast and frantic, neither one of them lasting terribly long. Marty clung to Emmett as if overwhelmed, entirely undone. Their sighs chased the sounds of whispering surf back out the window, punctuated by Marty's soft gasps and Emmett's not-quite-swallowed cries.

They lay utterly still and spent in the aftermath, side by side, their fingertips scarcely touching.

“You never slept with a man before?” Emmett ventured, still breathless, staring at the ceiling as sweat cooled on his skin. “That's not a critique, by the way. You were...”

“Never with a man,” Marty sighed, shaking his head. “Never with _anyone_.”

Emmett took a shaky breath, only somewhat relieved. _Where do I even begin?_

“You're my first one, too, if it's any consolation. First man, I mean. I was...” Emmett closed his eyes, determined not to succumb to grief. “Married once. A long time ago, to a _wonderful_ woman.”

“When did you realize you were attracted to guys, too?” Marty asked slowly, scooting closer to him.

“Always, I suppose,” Emmett admitted, rolling to face those arresting, candid blue eyes. “Peers at school, colleagues at work, the handsome waiter at Lou's,” he said. “I never acted on any of it.”

“Lou's?” Marty echoed, shaking his head as if to clear it. “Never till now, anyway?” he asked.

“I was in love with her,” Emmett said, petrified. “I really was, Marty. But she...wasn't around for long. So now it's just me, and I'm passing through. Before I leave, I intend to enjoy myself.”

Emmett hadn't realized he was crying until Marty brushed the tears from his cheeks. He leaned in to meet Marty halfway, comforted by this disarmingly naïve stranger's kiss.

“Hey,” Marty whispered, smiling. “That's what we're all here for, right?”

Emmett glanced over his shoulder at the digital clock on the nightstand, and beyond it, staring at the entire host of mechanicals on the wall. They were precisely one minute from striking midnight.

“Time's almost up,” he said quietly, reaching to brush Marty's damp cheek.

“Then let's just lie here,” Marty suggested, gaze as beguilingly clear as ever.

 

 

**Another Week Later**

Marty strode into Tucker's without paying much attention to the crowd around him, by now pushing his way to the bar like a pro. He supposed he'd become a regular, finding he took pride in that.

“Hiya, gorgeous,” said the blond bartender. “I could set my watch by you. Where's the Big E?”

“Uh, if you mean Do— _ah_ , Emmett,” said Marty, “I was just about to ask you that.”

“I haven't seen him tonight,” said the bartender, “and that's kinda irregular in and of itself.”

“Dammit,” Marty sighed, tapping the counter. “Guess maybe I should just wait. Jack and Coke.”

“Have you tried the Quagmire?” suggested the bartender, giving him a knowing look. “He hangs out there sometimes. Less for the, well, specialties on offer and more for the brainiacs it tends to draw.”

“Cancel the drink,” said Marty, determined. “This Quagmire, can you...tell me how to get there?”

“Step outside and flag down the first joyriders you see,” said the bartender, dumping Marty's drink into a waxed take-out cup. He stuck a lid and straw on it. “They'll take you. And have this for the road.”

The girls in the blue convertible seemed more than happy to cram Marty in the back seat. After a noisy fifteen-minute drive, they dropped Marty off at the end of a long dirt track leading off into a field.

“Good luck,” said one of the girls, giving him a thumbs up. “I hope you find your man in there!”

Marty could already tell he was going to regret setting foot in the surreally-lit warehouse looming at the end of the track. Motorcycles and four-wheelers came and went; others on foot, scantily, _scandalously_ clad, peered at Marty hungrily through the dusk. He felt simultaneously protected by his habitual, layered armor and also incredibly overdressed. Bondage gear didn't pull any punches.

Marty pushed his way through the narrow entrance passage, his pulse spiking every time one of the figures in eyeliner and leather cast him a sultry glance. A handful of people touched him without asking as he passed, running their palms across his cheeks, his shoulders, and sometimes his ass.

The space was a kaleidoscope of club-lights and, from room to room, musical styles as conflicted as the denizens' clothing. So far, he hadn't spotted Doc anywhere. He couldn't even _imagine_ —

“You, young man! Yes, you. I know you from somewhere. Tucker's. Emmett's friend, is that right?”

Marty blinked. Edna stood in front of him wearing nothing but an old-fashioned ivory lace slip, her hair hanging in disarray. There were lipstick marks on her face and livid bruises on her collarbone, and she gestured at Marty with an amber wine bottle that looked at least half empty.

“Do you know where to find him?” Marty asked, downing the dregs of his Jack and Coke for courage.

“How would I know that?” Edna challenged, taking a long pull of wine. “I'm not his damn secretary.”

“You're his friend?” asked Marty, cringing when he realized his drink was gone. He set down his cup.

“I _was_ his friend.”

“Has he been here?”

“Not that I've seen.”

Marty struggled not to let the disappointment show on his face, but then, he'd removed his aviators.

“You too, I gather?” Edna scoffed. “ _Well_.” She gestured at him with her bottle, seeming to experience a moment of remorse. “McFly, is it? _Martin_. How unexpected. I read the reports in the paper. Such a shame.” She sniffed, rubbing the tip of her nose. “Try a different time. I've seen him here in the '50s, in the '90s, and even once in 1938. He's worth taking a chance, right?”

Marty nodded gravely, watching her take another leisurely, dejected swig from the wine bottle.

 

 

**And Another . . .**

In 1955, Tucker's resembled the nostalgia diner, and the nostalgia diner was a coffee joint.

Marty searched Tucker's from top to bottom, avoiding jitter-buggers left, right, and center. He paused next to the jukebox to catch his breath, only to find himself across the machine from a young blonde woman whose eyes were disconcertingly familiar. She stared at him for a moment, shocked and sad.

“You okay, kiddo?” asked the woman, just as Marty started for the door. “Lookin' for someone?”

“Nah,” Marty sighed, loosening his silk tie, thanking her with a terse salute. “Wrong damn year.”

 

 

**. . . And Another . . .**

So _this_ was what 1995 looked like in the flesh. Marty couldn't help but marvel at it.

He didn't recognize the music video playing on the bank of screens in the shop window, but he tried to commit the refrain of _Oh now feel it, comin' back again / like a rollin' thunder chasing the wind_ to memory. There was a disturbing, déjà vu quality to the video's plot. He tried not to think about it.

Searching Tucker's thoroughly, all the discovered this time was that flannel seemed to be _in_.

Marty gave up and wandered the main drag until he'd reached the end of it, dashing across the highway and down to the shore. Cast in rosy sunset and city lights off the water, it was peaceful.

He hadn't been sitting alone on the sand for very long when somebody flopped down beside him.

“I wasn't gonna lose you this time,” said the blonde from 1955. He'd seen her with Doc in 1985 that one time, too. Her mode of dress always seemed to change. Now, she was in a Celtic-knot choker and a knee-length burgundy velvet dress with cap-sleeves. “Over my dead _body_ was I gonna.”

“I feel like I should know you,” said Marty, apologetically. “But you might have to help me out here.”

“Oh, _Marty_ ,” she sighed, reaching to brush sand from his cheek. “I always kinda hoped I'd see you here eventually, but not this soon. Thought maybe they'd be able to keep you till they found—”

“They have, Grandma,” Marty told her, feeling tears prick at his eyes as the realization set in. “Been keeping me, I mean. It...isn't the best arrangement, you know? At least I've got this once a week.”

Sylvia nodded sadly, but she broke into a wide smile that Marty remembered _very_ well.

“Hey,” she said slyly, tapping Marty's chin. “You keep your head up. You're still fightin', got it?”

“Have you seen Emmett?” Marty asked, chagrined, changing the subject. “Red-haired guy, about—”

“Now, there's a story you're gonna have to tell me sometime,” said Sylvia, winking at him. “Try '38.”

 

 

**. . . And Another**

Marty found Doc in Tucker's, which didn't look much different in 1938 than it did in 1955.

He was at one of the booths with the young man in glasses, the two of them engaged in a conversation that Marty could scarcely follow. Trajectories and variables and equations scrawled on napkins.

“Hey, Doc!” Marty interrupted, rushing to the table before he could think better of it. “Wait a sec—”

“What are you doing here?” Doc demanded, looking up from what he was scrawling for the other guy.

“I looked _everywhere_ for you. Where did you go?”

“I like a change of scenery every now and then. It's legal.”

“How the hell is this even your era?” Marty shot back accusingly. “You hid from me!”

“One, I most certainly did _not_. Two, I owe you nothing, Aviator Boy,” said Doc, ignoring the confused glances the other guy was giving them. “And three, well—see point number two!”

He rose and stalked off to the bathroom without even excusing himself, so Marty followed him.

“It's not about who owes who, Doc,” said Marty, imploringly. “It's about manners. You don't even know who I am. You don't know what this _means_.”

“This _here_?” Doc challenged. “Means fun, or at least it should, but I can tell you right now that fun is _not_ what we're having. It doesn't take a man of science to tell you that. Marty, this is...not my idea of a good time. I can't get you out of my head, and I never meant for this to—”

“So don't you feel bad about this?” Marty asked, cornering him against the sink. “Any of it?”

Doc stared at Marty's mouth, tight-lipped, his dark eyes luminous under the antique fixtures.

“Maybe you _should_ feel bad, Doc,” Marty retorted. “Or at least feel _something_.”

He stalked out before he could give in to the impulse to kiss Doc, leaving Doc alone to stew. He found his way up to roof without difficulty, finding a convenient ledge to perch on. He let his legs dangle over the brick-rough edge, regarding the revelers down below. Footsteps sounded behind him.

“Hey,” Doc said weakly. “Please tell me you've got your pain slider set to zero.”

Marty shook his head, because he had no actual idea _what_ it was set to, and then nodded. “Yeah, I think so,” he said. “That's the default, right? I've never even messed with it.”

“All right,” Doc sighed. “Glad to hear that. When I helped design this system, I didn't think—”

“How many of them are dead?” Marty asked, staring at the crowd below. “Like...what percentage?”

“As in full-timers?” Doc replied, hopping up to sit close beside Marty. “Permanent residents?”

Marty nodded. “I wanna know exactly what I'm seeing. I ran into my grandma. _She's_ dead.”

“Approximately eighty to eighty-five,” Doc said. “I'm sorry.”

“I wasn't gonna jump,” Marty sighed. “ _I'm_ sorry, Doc.”

“I know, and I'm _still_ sorry. In the time I've been here, I promised myself that I wouldn't...” Doc hesitated, swallowing. “Get emotionally involved. I don't want to _like_ anyone here, because heaven knows nobody back at home likes me. It's data-gathering. Strictly professional.”

“Well, I've got news for you, Doc,” said Marty, elbowing him. “I like you. A lot.”

Doc nodded, staring down at his hands. “The trouble is, I don't know how much...how long there is. And I _can't_ know. I wasn't prepared for you, for wanting something—”

Marty cut him off with a kiss. They didn't stop on their way across the roof, and they didn't stop on their stumbling way down the back stairs, either. They didn't even stop on the drive back to Doc's.

They made love like it was the last chance they'd get, and maybe it was. Afterward, on the back steps, afterward, Doc wrapped Marty in a blanket and offered him a drag on his Lucky Strike.

“Next week it is,” Marty sighed, declining the cigarette. “I'm getting married.”

“Next week? To the lovely Jennifer? Are you sure you'll go through with it?”

“Doc, I have to.”

“You have to?”

“Mmhmm,” Marty replied. “She really is a good woman. I mean, my family don't necessarily approve, but...they can't stop us. Even though we kinda grew up together, I know she pities me. That pisses me off. But that's not fair, because she's...”

Doc kissed Marty's hair, as if to comfort him. Marty stiffened, not even remotely prepared.

“You said you don't know how much time there is,” he asked. “What does that mean, Doc?”

“They tell me three months,” Doc sighed in defeat. “It's spread everywhere. But they also said three months before _six_ months ago, so what do they know? When I was given some...enhancements forty years ago, the only warning was that the modifications couldn't prevent or cure cancer.”

“Enhancements?” Marty asked, frowning. “ _Modifications_? English, Doc.”

“To make a very long story short,” Doc said haltingly, “I invented a time machine in the year 1985. Maybe now that you know I've had a hand in San Junipero under the auspices of Tucker Systems, you won't find that admission so difficult to swallow. I traveled to the year 2015—a version of it that didn't end up existing in real-time, granted—and got some work done that knocked _decades_ off my physical age.” He squinted at Marty, as if gauging Marty's reaction. “How old do you think I am?”

“Here, you don't look a day older than me, and that's _almost_ eighteen,” Marty said. “But we've already established that looks can be deceiving. My grandma, damn. She looked about twenty-five.”

“You're not going to believe this,” said Doc, quietly, “but I'm nearly a hundred and five years old.”

Marty blinked in disbelief. “You're over a hundred and only just _now_ dying of cancer? That's a pretty good run, Doc. A time machine. _Huh_. Where else did you go? You said you had a—”

“A wife,” Doc said, predicting Marty's train of thought to the letter. “Yes, I did. For about a week. Her name was Clara, and I met her in 1885. I'd managed to get myself stuck there, or so I thought. I spent about eleven months happily set up as the town blacksmith, and then she came along.”

“Talk about whirlwind romances,” Marty remarked, rubbing his arms. “You have a knack for them.”

“That's exactly why I'm kicking myself over the situation in which we find ourselves,” Doc sighed. “There's a pattern emerging. I hope you'll forgive me not going into more detail, but she took a close-range bullet that had been intended for _me_. The perpetrator got locked up, but I never...” He set his jaw, wrapping an arm around Marty, staring out to sea. “I had no reason to stay. I got down to work on the science of getting myself and my faulty machine out of there, and I succeeded.”

“What happened to the time machine?” Marty asked in awe. “What was it? A plane or something?”

“A heavily modified '81 DeLorean with a miniature nuclear reactor bolted to the back, essentially.”

“ _Heavy_ ,” Marty breathed admiringly. “What happened to it? Do you still have it? Do you think maybe you could, I don't know, go back and find a way of preventing—”

“I destroyed it on returning from 1885,” Doc replied. “Or, rather, my method of return did an excellent job of destroying it for me. I hijacked a locomotive and used it to push the vehicle up to 88 miles per hour. I had to make a dive for it when I arrived on the same set of tracks in 1985. There was a spectacular collision involving a modern freighter. I only ever found a handful of intact parts.”

“1985,” Marty echoed, turning from his contemplation of the sea to frown at Doc. “But you said you _invented_ it in 1985? Or was that just always the year you were coming back to?”

“It was my baseline reality, yes, so why wouldn't it always be my point of return? October 27, 1985.”

Marty shivered on hearing the date, shivered so hard that he nearly dislodged the blanket from them.

“But...you'll stay here after, right?” he prompted hopefully. “Since you clearly went to work for Tucker after you got back and played a crucial role in this system. It's helped so many people, Doc.”

“No,” replied Doc, adamantly. “When I'm done, Marty, I'm done.”

“That's crazy! Look at this place,” Marty protested. “I mean... _why?”_

“Clara. That's...my wife's name was Clara. She died _days_ after the wedding. That was over forty years ago in terms of my literal life-span, but over a hundred and forty years ago in terms of history. If I could've brought her back to 1985 alive, she might've had the chance to come here, pass over like so many people choose to do. Instead, she's...nowhere. _Gone_. Not even a trial run.”

“I mean, _shit_ , I wasn't even sure if I wanted to try it,” Marty admitted. “But, I mean... _Jesus_ , Doc. Without this place, I never would've met someone like you.”

“Don't be ridiculous, Marty. Of course you would have.”

"No, Doc. I, uh... _really_ wouldn't. You have no clue."

“Probability is a mercurial, yet reliable thing,” Doc explained. “We could've met outside all of this. There are probably a myriad timelines where we did."

“Time-travel stuff aside, Doc, in _this specific universe_? There are some pretty specific reasons why we didn't. If we were to meet—I mean, really meet? You might not like what you see.”

“Try me,” Doc shot back, relaxing slightly. “It's all I can do to prevent myself from seeking you out here, and even then? I'm not doing a very good job staying away.”

“Or it's...well, I have the feeling you wouldn't want to spend time with me,” Marty continued. “Not many people besides Jennifer do. You'd come, and then—"

“Try me,” Doc repeated, bafflingly determined. “Marty, _please_."

“Why? What's the point? What, where are you even located—Houston? Salt Lake City? Canada, for all I know? My grandma came from there. You know, Sylvia? You two have clearly met.”

“Hill Valley, California,” Doc said. “So come on, Aviator Boy. I showed you mine. Where are you?”

“That's...not possible, but I...knew your name sounded familiar back when you first told it to me, I...” Marty rubbed his eyes hard, blinking at the sea, and then looked back at Doc. “I'm in Hill Valley, too.”

“Then that's no distance at all,” said Doc, wonderingly, and Marty realized both of them were in tears.

“Doc, I don't want you to—” Marty clung to him, shaking “I don't want you to see me. I'm scared—”

“And I'm _dying_. Whatever you are can't scare me,” Doc reassured him, kissing Marty's forehead. “Please let me come visit. I want to say hello, but for...for _real_ this time.”

Marty nodded slowly, relieved, powerless to refuse. They kissed, huddling into each other, struggling to hear the sea as Doc's host of clocks inside the house struck clamorous midnight.

 

 

**Hill Valley, 2025**

As Toni helped Emmett out of their cross-town electric transport van that had been provided by Emmett's care facility, he studied the imposing edifice of Marty's. This was a _hospital_.

“Hello, Dr. Brown,” said the striking, middle-aged clinician who greeted them immediately inside the sliding glass doors. “What an honor to see you again. You might not recognize me. I'm Dr. Rai.”

“I remember you from your residency at Tucker,” Emmett said, shaking their hand. “It's a pleasure.”

"He's waiting for you," said Dr. Rai, nodding to Emmett's aide. “Please follow me.”

“How are you doing?” asked Toni, adjusting her grip on Emmett's arm. “Need a rest?”

“Thank you, but no,” Emmett sighed, allowing Dr. Rai and Toni to lead him. Breathing had grown as difficult lately as walking, but he wasn't about to let on how much pain he was in. Not today.

At the end of the sterile white hall, Dr. Rai used their security badge to _beep_ them into a room.

“He won't be able to physically respond in any way,” said Dr. Rai, showing them to Marty's bedside, “but he can hear everything you say. Sometimes he responds via text on the comm box; sometimes he doesn't. It's hooked up, anyway, just in case. I'll give you some privacy.”

Emmett approached the bed, nodding to indicate to Toni that it was all right for her to take a seat in the armchair near the window. A man in his late 50s, perhaps approaching 60, lay motionless under the crisp white sheets. He had dark, grey-streaked hair, and his blue eyes, wide open, stared at the ceiling.

Refusing to flinch away from the sight of the breathing tube that protruded from Marty's trachea, Emmett smiled, holding onto the bed's railing for support, and took hold of Marty's left hand.

“Hello, Aviator Boy,” he said. “It's good to see you.” He stroked Marty's hair, kissing his forehead. “I'm not easily scared off. And I'm willing to bet you're _still_ a better dancer than I am.”

Toni answered some correspondence on her phone, permitting Emmett and Marty to sit for a while in silence. Emmett glanced at the comm box every now and again, but the screen remained blank.

“I think he's asleep,” Emmett whispered after a while. “Or in whatever state of rest he prefers. Maybe we should grab a snack in the cafeteria and come back closer to the end of the hour?”

Nodding, Toni got up and came over to take Emmett's arm. “Now, that's a plan my father would've written right into law,” she said, grinning, leading Emmett over toward the door. “Need your pills?”

“No, no,” Emmett reassured her, shuffling into the hall. “Something with caffeine in it will suffice.”

“Excuse me, I'm so sorry to bother you, but—you must be Emmett?” said a voice from behind them. Toni turned them so that they faced the white-clad orderly rushing in their direction. “I'm Jennifer!”

“ _You're_ Jennifer?” Toni remarked, exchanging glances with Emmett. “Well, holy shit.”

Jennifer laughed. “I think it's great you came over in person, Dr. Brown, before Marty passes over. Even most of his family don't come visit anymore, so...”

“He's passing over?” asked Emmett, in dismay, clinging to Toni for support. “To San Junipero, permanently, instead of just...well, _passing_? When?”

“Why don't we go grab a coffee?” Jennifer replied gently. “I think there's a lot we should talk about.”

“All right,” Emmett agreed numbly, trusting Toni to propel them along in Jennifer's purposeful wake.

Five minutes later, they were settled at a sterile white cafeteria table with cappuccinos in front of them.

“Marty didn't tell you?” Jennifer asked in concern, blowing on the contents of her standard-issue mug.

“No, he did not,” Emmett sighed, letting Toni pat his hand. “He said he was just visiting. A tourist.”

“More like sampling the trial version,” Jennifer clarified, “but you know all about _that_ , given you engineered the system. The thing is, I've...Christ, I've known him since elementary school. We grew up together, eventually became high-school sweethearts—all of that. We talk on the comm box; it keeps him from going completely off the deep end, you know? When I went to nursing school, I didn't have any inkling I'd end up eventually caring for him, but here I am. And it feels right. I don't regret a thing. Did he ever tell you how he ended up quadriplegic? And how long he's been that way?”

Emmett shook his head, too overcome to speak. Even at almost sixty, Jennifer was beautiful: shining hazel eyes, hair dyed a fiery shade of auburn, the sincerest of smiles. Emmett's hair, once a similar shade, had gone pale blonde by the time he'd hit forty—and then, after that, completely white.

It was one of the many reasons he loved being in San Junipero. There, he looked like himself again.

“We weren't even eighteen yet,” Jennifer continued. “Well, no, that's not true. _I_ was. I'd just turned about a month before, but Marty's birthday was still about eight months away. The accident happened on October 27, 1985. I remember because he and I had taken a camping trip to the lake the night before—you know, things were starting to get serious, or at least we thought they were? And Marty ended up—I don't want to say _chickening out_ , because that'd be a discredit to him. He clammed up before we could get very far, said he wasn't sure he could sleep with me till he was up-front about thinking maybe he was gay, or in the very least bi, or...” She paused to mop at her eyes with the napkin Emmett handed her. “I didn't take it that well. I told him I wanted to go home. I needed time to think. It was too dark to head out, though, so we packed up and left as soon as first light broke over the mountains. Neither of us had slept much because we felt so shitty. Anyway, we'd scarcely gotten inside Hill Valley limits when Doug Needles, this tool from school who'd been bullying Marty since we were kids, pulls up and eggs Marty into a drag-race. It was a disaster. Marty was so desperate to prove he was worth something, so vulnerable, and nothing I said could talk him out of it.”

Emmett held Jennifer's arm while she blew her nose, understanding that this story was about to get much, much worse. There was nothing he could do—no time machine, no comfort—to change it.

“He was going too fast to slow down when a Mercedes-Benz pulled out in front of him. We hit it going over eighty miles per hour. Somehow, I got out of the crash with an arm snapped in three places, a concussion, and a bunch of scrapes and bruises. But Marty...”

“He was seventeen?” Emmett asked in horror, unable to think of anything else. “You were both...”

Jennifer nodded morosely. “More than 40 years ago. It's been his whole lifetime, basically, so the San Junipero system has been...a really big deal for him. He was a musician, Emmett. He played guitar. He _sang_. He's looking into playing gigs for Tucker's, even. Of course...now, until he passes over and it goes permanent, he's on a five-hour weekly limit. I guess you're the same?”

“They ration it out,” said Emmett, sourly. “They don't trust us with more. And, yes, I should know better than anyone; I helped to design and program it. That included the guidelines and regulations.”

“They say you go crazy if you have too much, you know?” said Jennifer, fearfully. “You don't leave your seat, you disassociate body from mind—”

“Like that doesn't happen in every senior home already,” Emmett scoffed, laughing. “The system's there for therapeutic reasons. Immersive Nostalgia Therapy. It plunges you into a world of memories. Our research has shown—and continues to show, especially from the inside—that it helps with Alzheimer's."

“Small mercies,” Toni said. “Heaven knows it helped Mom.”

“I'm sorry,” said Jennifer, put off her coffee. “That was insensitive.”

“So,” began Emmett, awkwardly. “About this imminent marriage...”

“The state's got a triple lockdown on euthanasia cases," Jennifer said. “You need a sign-off from the doctor, the patient, and a family member. It's to prevent people from passing over because they prefer San Junipero flat-out. Marty's family, they're...just Catholic enough not to sign. Doesn't sit right.”

“But a spouse can override them?” Emmett guessed. “Hence the wedding bells.”

“You got it,” Jennifer said. “I've got two great kids, and a grandkid on the way. Doesn't Marty deserve to be happy, too? We've got a priest coming tomorrow morning, and then he's scheduled to pass tomorrow afternoon.”

“Let's just call it dying,” said Emmett, sardonically.

“If you _can_ call it dying,” Jennifer replied.

“Uploaded to the cloud,” said Emmett. “Sounds like heaven.”

“I guess,” Jennifer said. “I'm not sure if I'd ever do it, but...”

“Will you get all dressed up?” Emmett asked. “Suit or gown?”

Jennifer laughed. “The ceremony's on my coffee break. My husband died three years ago, so I just figured...what's the harm? Marty and I might've gotten married anyway, who knows.”

"You're a good woman," Emmett said. _Even though you decided you didn't want him like this._

“It's the least I can do for him,” Jennifer said. “I'm a coward, Emmett. I can see you're thinking it.”

Emmett's mind worked furiously, grasping at the edges of an idea. “Do you suppose you could...hook us up to the system right now? Just for a little while, before he passes?”

“You can still see him afterwards. Then? There's no limit. He'll be a permanent San Juniperan.”

“I know,” said Emmett, as pleadingly as he dared, “but _can_ you? It would mean the world.”

Jennifer winced. “Seriously, the network security is so tight here that they monitor every—”

“I only want a moment,” Emmett cajoled sweetly. “And if you don't agree to it, I'll hack us a way in.”

Jennifer slumped in her seat, Toni smirked with pleasure, and Emmett knew then that he'd won.

Back in Marty's room, Emmett unpocketed his nickel-sized, adhesive-backed receiver and affixed it to his left temple. He settled back in the armchair even as Jennifer affixed Marty's receiver to his.

“Emmett, Marty,” she said tersely, and then glanced over at Toni, “you two have got five minutes.”

"Thank you," said Emmett, quietly, closing his eyes, hitting the button on the controller in his pocket.

Just like that, he was racing barefoot across the dunes toward Marty in blinding daylight. He'd never seen Marty in nothing but his red t-shirt and rolled-up jeans before. He was beautiful.

“Hey!” Emmett called, waving as he ran. “Over here! Thought I might not find you!”

"I've never been here during the daylight," said Marty, meeting Emmett halfway. “It's warm!”

“I've got to be quick,” said Emmett, taking hold of Marty's hands. “I just spoke to Jennifer.”

"Ah, yeah," said Marty, crestfallen. “You guys left the room and didn't come back for a bit.”

“You're passing over tomorrow?” Emmett asked, not about to judge Marty for his silence.

“Yeah,” Marty said, looking relieved to have everything out in the open. “A couple of hours after the wedding. So I guess I'm technically honeymooning here forever. I'm sorry I didn't tell you.”

Emmett shushed him, setting his fingers against Marty's lips. “I'm going to say something ridiculous.”

“Okay,” Marty replied, grinning at him widely. “Wouldn't be the first time.”

Emmett went down on one knee, breathless. “Want to marry me instead?”

Marty took a step back, perplexed, eyes instantly glassy with unshed tears.

“Jennifer seems truly wonderful for sticking by you,” said Emmett, “so I'd understand if—”

Marty dropped to his knees and kissed Emmett, framing Emmett's face with both hands. He drew back with a disbelieving laugh, poking Emmett squarely in the chest, and then kissed him again.

“Is that a yes?” Emmett asked, hugging Marty for all he was worth.

“Yeah, Doc,” Marty whispered. “That is _definitely_ a yes.”

The next day, with Jennifer and Toni as witnesses, the ceremony took place in Marty's room.

As Dr. Rai solemnly nodded, Emmett swiped the proffered permissions tablet's screen— _MCFLY, MARTIN SEAMUS: ALL LIFE-SUPPORT SYSTEMS SUSPENDED_ —with no regrets.

Jennifer administered the requisite dosage to Marty's drip, disconnecting his breathing tube.

The active receiver on Marty's left temple glittered, his soul enshrined in LED constellation.

 

 

**San Junipero, 1985**

Marty stepped onto the sand outside the Brown Estate as if materializing from ether, finding the beach awash in daylight. Hundreds of gulls swarmed overhead, and the surf was cold against his bare feet.

He sat down, took off his aviators, and set them on the sand. “Well, Doc,” he said. “I'm home.”

Endless, enchanting days passed. They stretched into weeks. Marty never tired of combing the surf for shells and beach glass, and he made the requisite connections around town to form a band to join the performance rota at Tucker's. They weren't the Pinheads, but Marty thought they might just work.

One morning, as he was sitting alone with coffee on the sand, he heard a horn blare up on the shoulder of the access road. It was Doc, grinning at the wheel of his beat-up 1930s truck.

“Hey!” Doc shouted, hanging out the door of his vehicle, dressed in an old-fashioned white suit with a starched bow-tie and everything. “Need a ride?”

Marty ran to him, laughing. “You sure are a charmer, you know that? Took you long enough.”

“You didn't dress up to see me?” Doc asked with mock-affront, spreading his arms wide.

“Oh,” Marty said, glancing abashedly down at his ratty red t-shirt and worn-in Levi's jeans.

“Come on,” Doc prompted. “You can do better than that! You're a budding rock star, right?”

Marty willed his clothing to switch over to something more appropriate: his attempt at old-fashioned gravitated somewhere nearer to the '50s or '60s, but that was all right. The black-and-white shoes that appeared on his feet were pretty sharp, although he found the leather stiffer than it looked.

“Better?” he asked, grinning, glancing up to seek approval. “Some of this crap's from my dad's closet.”

Doc clapped, laughing with him. He helped Marty up and over the concrete barrier, swinging him in a giddy circle. “Get in the car, Aviator Boy," he said. “We've got a wedding to celebrate.”

They cruised the evening away with their shoes tied to the back of the truck, stopping off in town so that Marty could fetch his guitar from the back room at Tucker's. They found a secluded stretch of beach within sight of San Junipero's lights, where Marty played for Doc until well after dusk.

“This place looks so real,” he remarked much later, his bare feet damp, his head resting against Doc's shoulder. “Feels so real, too!”

“I should hope,” Doc replied. “We built it to.”

“I love it here,” said Marty, softly. “I just love it.”

“You've been here before,” Doc reminded him fondly. “It isn't anything new.”

“Yeah, but now I live here,” Marty replied, turning Doc's chin so that he could look directly into his eyes. “And it's actually kinda lonely, Doc. Be with me.”

“I'm with you now,” Doc reassured him, leaning in for a kiss.

“That's not what I mean,” Marty said. “Pass over. When it's your time.”

“Marty,” Doc murmured,unreadable, tightly closing his eyes.

“Stay with me, for crying out loud. I'll be waiting right—”

“Can't you ever live in the moment? Can't we just enjoy tonight?”

“It's almost midnight,” Marty seethed, his longing turning to anger. “In ten minutes, you're out of here, and then I've gotta wait a week—or two, or _three_ —to see you again!”

“You know I'm just a visitor. My time here is rationed.”

“So...what, Doc? A couple more months? Then what?”

“We're not discussing this. It's too painful for me to—”

“And then you're gone. Just _gone_ ,” said Marty, desolately. “Gone when you could have forever—a forever that _you helped to build_ —with me.”

“Forever? Marty, who can even make sense of forever?” Doc retorted. “I couldn't even make sense of time travel, and I fucking _invented_ it.”

“However long you want, then,” Marty pleaded, by now on the brink of tears. “I mean, you can remove yourself. Just like that,” he added, snapping his fingers. “You didn't build this to be a trap.”

“I have to go,” said Doc, hastily, brushing the sand off his suit as he got to his feet. “I'm sorry.”

“Hey,” Marty said, dashing after him toward the truck. “Hey, wait!” He caught up with Doc next to the driver's-side door, nearly up on tiptoe to catch Doc's face in both hands. “It's real,” he insisted, letting go of Doc's cheeks, bringing Doc's hands up to press against his own. “So's this.”

“You know it was just a gesture,” said Doc, gently, letting his hands fall away.

“You married me, Doc,” Marty insisted, hard-eyed and heartbroken. “You—”

“To help you pass over,” Doc said, his voice taut. “As a kindness. I've come to...care about you a great deal in a very short time, and, like Jennifer, I'd see you spend eternity content.”

“It's, ah, not so kind to leave,” Marty pointed out, already in tears. “Okay, look, I'm sorry, I just—I got this chance. _We_ got this chance. You gave it to us. I wanna share it with you.”

“I made my choice regarding death, Marty. You know that. I made it a long time ago.”

“What is it? What's stopping you? You feel bad or something because your wife isn't here?”

“She never had the chance to choose. It's unfair. You can't begin to imagine, you can't even know—that's her picture in the house. The one you called my _mother_. You didn't even think to ask. Clara died for a mistake _I_ made, and you didn't even think—”

“I'm sorry,” said Marty, harshly, realizing his error. “Doc, oh God, I'm—”

“I wish I believed she was somewhere, _anywhere_ ,” said Doc, with bitter desperation. “I wish I believed I was going to be with her when I go, but...I don't. And if she's nowhere, then that's where I should be, too, paradise that I helped to build be _damned_! I pitied you. I pitied you, Marty. That's the truth, and now you give me some sales pitch about how peachy forever could be?”

“I'm sorry,” Marty repeated, unable to say anything else. “I deserve this. To be alone.”

“You want to spend forever somewhere nothing matters? End up like Edna? All those lost souls at the Quagmire trying anything to feel something? Go ahead. But I'm out, Marty. I'm gone.”

With that, Doc stalked around to the driver's side, got in his truck, and drove off.

Marty attempted to give chase, calling after him, but it was no use. He kept running anyway, stumbling along the shoulder of the highway. Ahead, he heard the abrupt roar of the truck's acceleration—

And the screeching impact with wood and concrete. Just around the bend, as a light rain began to fall.

Marty found Doc in a crumpled heap on the scrub-dotted sand just beyond the construction-sign barrier. He ran to him, wondering what setting Doc's pain slider was on, and helped him get to his feet.

As Doc blinked at Marty in wonder, his hands grasping at Marty's forearms, he vanished.

For an instant, Marty felt a crushing sense of loss, but then he realized: _midnight_.

 

 

**Hill Valley, 2025**

Emmett's days in the managed-care facility had settled into a plodding, painful routine.

Toni woke him at eight on weekdays and led him, oxygen tank and all, down to breakfast.

After breakfast, he sat outside on the deck and considered the view he had of Hill Valley at a distance.

Today wasn't much different, except that the coughing was worse, and the oxygen tank didn't help.

“Well, okay then,” said Emmett, decisively, glancing at Toni where she sat beside him on the swing.

“What is it?” she asked in concern, adjusting his tubes and clips with a frown. “Emmett?”

“All things considered, I guess I'm ready,” Emmett said, longing for the dusk-dimmed sea.

 

 

**One Week Later**

Marty wasn't much for using the local lovers' lane to its intended purpose, but he liked to sit in his pristine Toyota 4x4 with the windows down and pen lyrics in his notebook. Flipping it shut, he waved at the chagrined couple in the convertible parked next to him and pulled onto the highway.

He flipped on the radio, shaking his head as _The Power of Love_ blared in his speakers.

Making it back to the beach house in record time, he reflected on how grateful he was for what Doc had given him. An inheritance, an afterlife, a _home_. He parked and got out of the truck.

Removing his sunglasses as he reached the stairs, he almost tripped over the figure hunched there.

Flame-haired and contrite in the sunshine, Doc glanced up at Marty with uncertainty.

“It didn't feel any different this time,” he said wonderingly. “Not even now that it's...”

"Permanent?" asked Marty, hopefully, too stunned to breathe “Doc, tell me. _Is_ it?”

Doc nodded, grinning up at him. “I _did_ make my choice,” he said. “Turns out that the process involved changing my mind somewhere along the way without thinking too hard about it.”

Marty felt his knees give, so he sat down beside Doc on the steps. “Are you telling me that this...”

“Is your forever, Aviator Boy,” said Emmett, softly, tipping Marty's chin up until their eyes met. “ _Our_ forever, if you still want it.”

“Yeah, Doc,” Marty said through joyful, disbelieving tears. “I do.”


End file.
